


Another Roadside Attraction - Part Two

by withoutaplease



Series: Another Roadside Attraction [2]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the spring of 2006, and reader has enjoyed a longer-than-expected involvement with Sam, a handsome traveler she met at a coffee shop.  But he’s waiting for someone, and the time has come for that someone to arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Roadside Attraction - Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> I need you to trust me, fam. You trust me, right?

               Whenever you think about Sam Beckett – which is, basically, all of the time – you think about him in terms of known facts.  Sam Beckett was born on May 2, 1983.  He has a brother, Dean, and a father, John. He has no memory of his mother, because she died when he was a baby.  His father raised him and his brother alone, and they moved around a lot.  He graduated high school.  He used to go to college.  He would prefer not to talk about it.

               Sam Beckett is leaps and bounds too smart to be wasting his time making minimum wage in a coffee shop. His brother sounds like a bit of an asshole, but Sam’s face lights up like a Christmas tree when he remembers them growing up together.  He used to have a girlfriend, and they were pretty serious.  He would prefer not to talk about it.

               Sam Beckett is not your boyfriend.  He fucks you so well that you finally understand why everyone thinks sex is such a big deal. One night out of three, he jolts himself awake an hour later with a nightmare that he would prefer not to talk about.  He is beautiful. He is kind. You’ve got it so goddamned bad for him that it makes you nauseous sometimes. He isn’t here to stay.  Known facts.

               The thing is, when it first happened, and it was just for a night, maybe two, possibly even (in your wildest dreams) three, it was simple enough to remind yourself that this was a temporary arrangement.  Sam would save a few bucks on a motel room, you would get all your lattes on the house, and you’d screw each other stupid between shifts and classes until it was time for him to hit the road. It worked out beautifully, and then a few days became a week, and a week became six, and now neither of you talks about him leaving anymore.  You don’t use the word _boyfriend_ when you introduce him to your friends, but you don’t correct anyone who refers to him as such, either.  You haven’t quite worked up the courage to ask, _what if_ , but it feels like it’s always right there at the tip of your tongue, ready to fall out any minute now.

* * * * *

                 It’s a gorgeous spring Friday, and when the clock you've been watching finally reaches 4:00pm, the rush of warm, fragrant air that hits you when you walk out the double doors of the Business building is something close to heaven.  The sun is shining hot, and as you head over to the coffee shop to wait for Sam to finish his shift, your thoughts of studying drift to thoughts of visiting the lake and swimming, which then drift to thoughts of skinny dipping, which, in turn, drift to thoughts of making love on a blanket on the beach, under the moon and stars. By the time you swing open the door to the shop, you’ve got a whole romantic evening in mind, and when you look for Sam behind the counter to propose it, your eyes land on . . . someone else.

               The owner of the shop, a pleasant older woman who’s been very understanding about paying Sam cash under the table, is at the register in his place.  “You just missed him, sweetie,” she says with a smile when she sees you looking around. “I let him go early when his brother showed up and surprised him.” 

               She keeps talking, but you don’t hear anything after _his brother showed up_ , because your next breath feels like a lungful of ice water, and your heart is caught somewhere in your throat. You slide down into the nearest chair, dumbstruck.

               “Honey, are you okay?” she asks, coming around the counter and walking over to you. She presses the back of her hand to your forehead. “You look really pale all of a sudden.”

               “I’m fine,” you lie.  “You’re sure it was his brother?”

               “Bit older, big green eyes, called him ‘Dean’,” she says with a shrug, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

               You nod. “Did they say where they were going?” you ask, managing to keep an even tone with a fair amount of effort, panic already creeping up in your mind.

               “I just saw them talking out back in the parking lot. They might even still be there.”  You’re already halfway out of the chair when she adds, “Did something happen with you two?  You’re both acting like you’ve seen a ghost.”

               “Thank you,” you mutter, ignoring that last bit and hurrying out the door. You don’t even know what you’re going to say as you rush around the building toward the back lot, but you hope you’re not too late to say it. You’re just about to round the corner when you hear Sam’s voice coming from the other side, and you freeze.

               “You couldn’t call once to tell me what was going on? It’s been two months, Dean, I was starting to wonder if you were dead,” he says, with anger at the edges.

               “You’re right, Sam, I could have called,” retorts another gruff voice that can only belong to his brother. “That way the suits that were watching me could’ve traced the call to you and then brought you in as an accessory.  I’d like to hear you explain the pile of heartless corpses they found in that house.  I was hiding out, it’s an occupational hazard.”

               You lean back against the brick wall, skin going cold despite the warmth of the sun against the stone.

               “Maybe I could have helped you,” Sam says.

               “You can help me right now,” Dean replies, “by getting your shit and getting in the car.”

               Your stomach drops, and Sam says, “It’s not that easy.”

               “Why not? Big promotion at the coffee shop?” Dean teases.

               Silence, for a moment. “I met someone,” Sam mutters, eventually.

               “You did? Well, that’s real nice,” Dean says, chuckling a little, “I’m truly happy for you, but fun time is over, and we gotta go.”

               “It’s not like that,” Sam says sullenly.

               “Oh yeah?” Dean says.  “Tell me what it’s like. Is it different this time? Does she know the truth about you? About what we do? Does she even know your real name?”  Sam doesn’t speak right away, and you really don’t want to hear any more, but you feel paralyzed, helpless to stop listening.

               "Two months, Dean. I didn't know if you were coming back," he says. "I can't help it, I care about her."

               “Look,” Dean continues, “I’m sure she’s a great girl, but you’re not that guy.  And you’ve really only got two choices. You can hurt her now by taking off, or maybe she’s another one who ends up hurt a lot worse later.”

               “Did you seriously just say that to me?” Sam says darkly. “Are you looking for a black eye?”

               “If that’s what it takes to get through to you,” Dean says. “But Dad needs us right now, and you’re coming with me even if I have to knock you out first.”

               Your head feels like it’s going to implode, and you’re just about to force your body into motion and get the hell out of there when you hear Sam mumble, “All right.  Just let me go talk to her first.”  Then you are moving, and you’re taking a few staggering steps toward you-don’t-know-where, except that it’s away from here, and then you’re stopped in your tracks again when Sam says, “(Y/N)?” from behind you. You turn to look at him, and you’re not crying but you’re damned close, and you see patches of deep crimson high in his cheeks.  Next to him, the man with the big green eyes flashes a pained, phony grin.

               “This is the girl? I see what you like about her,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

               Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  “Please just shut the fuck up, Dean,” he says, almost at a whisper.  Dean, for his part, does as he’s asked.  Sam opens his eyes again, and when he meets yours, he looks about as sick as you feel.  “How much did you hear?” he asks evenly.

               “A lot more than I wanted to,” you spit back.

               He nods, sighs. “So then you know this is my brother, Dean,” he says, his expression fairly miserable.

               “Yup,” you say, “got that.”  You glance back and forth between them, and for a moment, the air is so thick you can almost see it.  “I’m gonna go home,” you say, forcing yourself to sound calm.  “You can pick up your things on your way out of town.”

               You nod, then turn away and start walking again, heart pounding in your chest, and this time, nobody stops you.  You manage to keep it together until you’re inside your apartment with the door slammed shut behind you, and then your very next breath spills out in a sob.

* * * * *

               By the time he knocks an hour later, you’ve cried yourself out, and you drag yourself, numb and exhausted, to open the door. Standing in your doorway with his hands jammed in his pockets and his eyes cast down to your feet, Sam looks small despite his size. When he meets your gaze, his face is absolutely wrecked, and you fight back dual urges to kiss it and to strike it. You end up doing neither. “You have a key,” you say instead, stepping aside so that he has room to come in. “You don’t have to knock.”

               “I didn’t think you’d want me to just come in,” he stammers.

               “What, now that you’re a stranger?” you say.

               He bites the inside of his cheek. “Yeah,” he agrees, unmoving.

               “Well,” you say, looking away, “come on and get your things. Sounded like you were in a hurry.” Your voice is even, but your gut feels like it’s full of wet cement. He steps inside and you close the door behind him, and he gets about halfway to the bedroom before he stops and turns to you.

               “(Y/N),” he says, “I want to explain. I don’t want to leave it like this.”

               You lean back against the wall, arms crossed, and stare up at the ceiling. “Where do you even start, Sam?” you ask without looking at him. “It is ‘Sam,’ isn’t it?”

               He takes a deep breath before he answers. “Sam Winchester,” he says. “I used a fake name to get that job at the coffee shop, and then I was stuck with it.” When you don’t respond, he says, “Will you come and sit with me for a minute? Please?” You turn to face him, really looking, trying to decide if he’s still Sam to you, or if he really is just a stranger now.  He looks the same as yesterday; you feel the same as yesterday.

               “All right,” you sigh, letting your guard down just a little. “I’ll listen.” You both go over to the couch and sit at opposite ends, and he’s careful to give you your space, avoiding touching you.  He draws his knees up to his chest and folds his arms around them.  He searches the room, as if the words he needs are written somewhere on your walls.  You don’t wait for him to find them.

               “How about you start with the ‘pile of heartless corpses’?” you say. “Is your brother some kind of serial killer or something? Is that why you’re using a fake name and you were on a ‘road trip’?”

               “No,” Sam says, a little startled. “That’s not it at all.”

               You keep going, sadness giving way to anger as you pick up steam. “When you said he got into ‘a little trouble with the cops,’ I was thinking bar brawl or maybe drugs or something, not murder.”

               “He’s not a murderer – “Sam starts, but you’re not done.

               “And what the hell was that about me ‘getting hurt worse later’? Was that a threat? Am I even safe right now?”

               “Of course!” he exclaims, and he reaches out to touch you, and it stings you when he pulls his arm back again.  “I know how this looks, okay?”

               “That’s good,” you say, “because it looks fucked up.”

               He chuckles humourlessly. “You’ve got that right,” he mutters.

               “So,” you say, “how about you tell me why I shouldn’t call the cops right now?”

               “All right,” he says. “I need you to try to believe me.”

               “I’m still listening,” you answer.

               He takes a deep breath. “First, Dean didn’t kill anybody, okay? He went to that house because he knew the people there were in danger.  He was trying to save them, but it was too late.”

               “If he didn’t do anything, why did he run from the police? And why didn’t he call them in the first place if he knew about a serial killer?  Are you guys bounty hunters or something?”

               “We are hunters,” he agrees, “and Dean didn’t tell the cops because the killer wasn’t a person. It was a lamia.  A monster.  We hunt monsters.”

               “Monster hunters,” you repeat, and he nods as if he’s said the most reasonable thing in the world.

               “That’s why we were here in town,” he says. “We were tracking it.”

               “You realize how batshit this sounds?” you say.

               He half-smiles. “Why do you think I didn’t tell you?” he answers.

               “So this monster,” you say, “is it going to come after me now? Is that why Dean said I was going to get hurt?”

               “Not exactly,” he says.  “I killed the lamia.  But there’s this thing, this demon, and it killed my mother when I was a baby.” He hesitates. “Then, last fall, it killed my girlfriend.  Now it’s after my dad, and that’s why I can’t stay here.  We have to go help him, and we have to destroy this demon.”

               It’s so absurd that all you can think to do is laugh, a fit of giggles that borders on hysterics before it dies down again.  Sam waits unflinchingly, and when you’re through laughing, you see he’s just staring at the floor. “Come on,” you say. “You can’t expect me to believe any of this.”

               “I wish it wasn’t true,” he says with a shrug, and when he looks to you again, he’s sad and resolute and suddenly far too old for his age.  “Anyway,” he says, starting to get up, “I just wanted to tell you the truth.  Thank you for listening.  I’m just gonna get my stuff.”  You watch him walk into your bedroom, and you follow a few seconds behind, standing in the doorway as he starts shoving his clothes hurriedly into his duffel.

               “I don’t know which one of us is crazier,” you say, “but I think I believe you.”

               He stops what he’s doing for a second and looks to you, a small smile curling up on his lips. “Thank you,” he says, then starts packing again.

               “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” you ask.

               “What?” he says.

               “Whether I believe you or not . . . you’re still leaving,” you answer.

               “I was always honest with you about that,” he says.

               “I know,” you concede, “but . . . that was before.”

               He drops the bag and comes over to you, and it only takes one brush of his hand on your shoulder before you’re falling against his chest and he’s wrapping his arms around you and tears fill your eyes again. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair.  “I wish . . . for what it’s worth, I . . .” he sighs.  “I’m so sorry,” he concludes.

               He moves one hand up to rake his fingers through your hair, his chest rising and falling against your cheek as he sighs heavily. You look up at him, and there’s so much unspoken behind the eyes looking back that it makes your heart ache. His lips part, and he bows his head and cups your face with the palm of his hand, then he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that finishes all those sentences for him.  Your mouth yields to his tongue, and when the rush of warmth between your legs distracts from the weight that’s crushing your chest, you welcome it, and let it carry you away.

               You let him gather up the hem of your shirt in his fingers and lift it gently off over your head. You let him slowly run his fingertips up the ridges of your spine, and let them pause to unfasten your bra clasp.  You let him slip the straps down off your shoulders, let him duck his head to leave warm kisses in their place, let him cup your breasts almost reverently in his hands as your bra falls to the floor. You let him draw blood and responsiveness into your nipples with his fingers and thumbs, and let him bend to pull them into the wet-warm slip of his lips and tongue. When his hands move to the zipper of your jeans, and he pauses to look to you for permission, you even let him see you smile a little bit.

               When all of your clothes are in a heap on the floor, the two of you fall in a heap into bed, and your limbs and tongues twisting together feel all at once the same and different. You kiss him with a need honed by desperation, and he holds you with a grip that defies letting go. He takes the time to leave kisses all over your skin, lips dragging and tongue tasting, from your collarbone on down to the sensitive skin above the mound of your pussy, as if he could kiss away the hurt he’s caused if he just lingers long enough. Then he’s running his tongue flat through your folds, slippery and sweet, and when he laps against your clit, the nerves jolt electric, and the hurt’s not gone, but for the moment, it’s very nearly forgotten.

               He licks you until you’re arched and whimpering and clamping your thighs on the sides of his head, his own hips rolling as he slowly ruts against the mattress beneath him.  When the press and flicker of his tongue coaxes your climax from you, he moans into your skin as you pant and writhe beneath him.  He’s back up at your side the moment you calm down, and he isn’t smiling, exactly, but his teeth are bared in an expression of pleasure, and his lips are shiny with your slick.  He kisses you, and you taste what he tastes, and your tongues lap each other up as if neither of you can get enough, because you can’t, there’s no such thing.  Then he’s reaching for a condom from your nightstand drawer, and slipping it on, and rolling on top of you, and then he’s inside you and it’s so good to feel him this way again after everything’s changed, but it’s also bitter because it’s all there is left, and it’s almost done.

               If wanting it badly enough could stop time, you’d be here in this moment forever, but you don’t even have the power to stop your hips from rising up to meet Sam’s thrusts.  He moves slowly, deliberately, measuring himself with obvious effort, wanting this to last as much as you do.  He winds the fingers of one hand into your hair, his grip tightening as he nears his end, and his lips don’t break their contact with yours until he’s too far gone to keep it up and has to gasp for air.  Then he grunts, and starts to tremble, and his thumb finds your clit and rubs, hard and fast, because he’s past the point of stopping his own orgasm.  It’s enough to tip you over, and as you clench and contract around him, whatever’s left unsaid between you is said in moans and cries and whimpers. 

               The silence that falls after is a heavy one, as you lie in his arms, exhausted and used up, sweat drying on your skin.  You close your eyes, and in what might just be a cosmic act of mercy, you drift off to sleep.

* * * * *

               You’ve been asleep for maybe two hours when you come back to consciousness, but you don’t have to open your eyes to know that he’s already gone.  Your room feels too quiet, too still, empty.  Taking a breath that feels like lead in your chest, you force your eyelids apart and see that there’s still light coming in through the window.  You drag yourself up, and go through the motions of picking up your clothes and putting them back on.  Bending to grab your socks, you see a gray t-shirt wadded up under the bed that Sam must’ve missed in his hurry.  It smells like him, and you toss it onto your unmade bed to be dealt with later.  Right now, the best you can do is just triage – water, shower, try not to think.

               You see the note on the counter when you go to find a clean glass in the cupboard.  It’s weighted in place with the spare key you lent Sam when you invited him to stay with you six weeks, a lifetime, ago.  It’s short, just a few lines, but it’s enough to send another teardrop sliding hotly down each of your cheeks.

               _I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am._

_You have my number. If you’re ever in any kind of trouble, please call. Even if you hate me._

_I want you to be happy._

_\- Sam_

               You shove the note into the back of your junk drawer, unable to look at it, unable to throw it away.  It stays there untouched for the next two years, until you graduate from college with your Business diploma, move out of this small apartment and this small town, and start the business of finding your way to the next part of your life.

* * * * *

               Whenever you think about Sam Winchester – which is a lot more often than you’d like to admit – you think about him in terms of known facts.  He was born on May 2, 1983.  He has a brother, Dean, and a father, John.  His mother was killed by a demon when he was a baby.  Now, he is a hunter. You met him while he was hunting a monster.  Demons are real. Monsters are real.  Known facts.


End file.
